Bulgarians, and those besides whose language is Slavonic. These have dark eyes, hair, and skin. The two former are not so dark as those of the Celts: the skin presents a similar hue. "He" (Dr. Pritchard), says Lawrence, "proceeds to shew from Diodorus Siculus, that the Sarmatians descended from the Medes, and were found on the banks of the Tanais seven hundred years before the Christian era: by the authority of Herodotus, that they occupied the country between the Tanais and the Borysthenes when Darius Hystaspes invaded Syria; and from Cluverius, that the coasts of the Baltic, and the banks of the Vistula, Prussia, and the country as far as the situation of the Finni and Venedi, were the ancient seats of the Sarmatians." These races, added to those of Asia and Africa, which present a similarity of character, mental and corporeal, constitute the Caucasian division. The people of either Asia or Africa who come under this division, likewise include different races; and thus, in the Caucasians there are many races, each presenting a character nationally distinct. But, in some respect or another, more especially perhaps in cerebral conformation, they partake so much of the character of each other as to be acknowledged under one class, imperfect yet as the arrangement doubtless is. Mr. Turner thinks that "the Caucasian variety claims also the Persian Zoroaster, and the founders of the religion of Bramah, who, in the peninsula of India, had signalized themselves by great advances in art and science in the very remotest antiquity." Among the Caucasians there are great modifications of character, cerebral and mental. There are among them, but evidently as exceptions to what we should embrace under the Caucasian variety, the lowest organization with a corresponding intellect and moral feeling—an organization, an intellect, and a feeling not superior even to the

Mongolian or Æthiopian. The baser feelings of man may be kept more in subjection in some parts of Europe, in consequence of restraint being more imperatively enforced by some European governments, by rigid and exact laws, when the character will outwardly assume a more respectable aspect, though inwardly it may be equally vile, brutal, and sensual: and, withal, we perceive an organization no better than that of the Mongolian, and an organization, too, which has generally been neglected by parents, who have studiously avoided inculcating those precepts which ought to be instilled into the youthful mind, and which alone, the organization being indifferent, is capable of raising man above the level of the savage in feeling and intellect, who also is without either precept or organization, such, at least, as is necessary to the preservation of national dignity, and the blessings of civilization.

COLLOQUY XII,

THE effects of the return of Spring have been frequently remarked, as well in relation to the human mind as to the animal and vegetable world. The reviving power of this season has been traced from the fields to the herbs that inhabit them, and from the lower classes of beings up to man. Gladness and joy are described as prevailing through universal nature, animating the low of the cattle, the carol of the birds, and the pipe of the shepherd. I know not if it be from a singular, or a censurable disposition, that I have often felt in my own mind something very different from this gaiety, supposed to be the inseparable attendant of the vernal scene. Amidst the returning verdure of the earth, the mildness of the air, and the serenity of the sky, I have found a still and quiet melancholy take possession of my soul, which the beauty of the landscape, and the melody of the birds, rather soothed than overcame. Perhaps some sort of reason may be given why this kind of feeling should prevail over the senses, in those moments of deeper pensiveness to which every thinking mind is liable, more at this time of the year than at any other. Spring, as the renewal of verdure and of vegetation, becomes naturally the season of remembrance. We are surrounded with objects, new only in their revival, but which we acknowledge as our acquaint

ance in the years that are past. Winter, which stopped the progression of nature, removed them from us for a while, and we meet, like friends long parted, with emotions rather of tenderness than of gaiety. This train of ideas once awaked, memory follows over a very extensive field; and in such a disposition of mind, objects of cheerfulness and delight are, from those very qualities, the most adapted to inspire that milder sort of sadness which, in the language of a native bard, is "pleasant and mournful to the soul." They will inspire this, not only from the recollection of the past, but from the prospect of the future; as an anxious parent, amidst the sportive gaiety of the child, often thinks of the cares of manhood and the sorrows of age. These effects will, at least, be commonly felt by persons who have lived long enough to see, and had reflection enough to observe, the vicissitudes of life. Even those who have never experienced severe calamities, will find, in the review of these years, a thousand instances of fallacious promises and disappointed hopes. The dream of childhood and the project of youth have vanished, to give place to sensations of a very different nature. In the peace and beauty of the rural scene which Spring first unfolds to us, we are apt to recall the former state with an exaggerated idea of its happiness, and to feel the present with increased satisfaction, and particularly if that scene were the one in which this state was passed. There is a silent chronicle of past hours in the inanimate things amidst which they have been spent, that gives us back the affections, the regrets, the sentiments of our former days-that gives us back their joys without tumult, their griefs without poignancy, and produces equally from both a pensive pleasure, which men who have retired from the world, or whom particular circumstances have somewhat estranged from it, will be

I peculiarly fond of indulging. Above all others, those objects which recall the years of our childhood, will have this tender effect upon the heart: they present to us afresh the blissful illusions of life, when Gaiety was on the wing undaunted by Care, and Hope smiled before us unchecked by Disappointment. The distance of the scene adds to our idea of its felicity, and increases the tenderness of its recollection: 'tis like the view of a landscape by moonshine; the distinctness of object is lost, but a mellow kind of dimness softens and unites the whole.

But the pencil of memory stops not with the representation of ourselves; it traces also the companions and friends of our early days, and marks the changes they have undergone. It is a dizzy sort of recollection to think over the names of our schoolfellows, and to consider how very few of them the ravage of accidents, and the sweep of time, have left within our reach. This, however, is less pointed than the reflection on the fate of those whom affinity or friendship linked to our sidewhom distance of place, premature death, or (sometimes not a less painful consideration) estrangement of affection, has disjoined from us for ever. I am not sure if the disposition to reflections of this sort be altogether a safe or a proper one. I am aware that, if too much indulged, or allowed to become habitual, it may disqualify the mind for the more active and bustling scenes of life, and unfit it for the enjoyments of ordinary society; but, in a certain degree, I am persuaded it may be found useful. We are all of us too little inclined to look into our own minds—all apt to put too high a value on the things of this life. But a man, under the impression I have described, will be led to look into himself, and will see the vanity of setting his heart upon external enjoy